


tell me a piece of your history (that you've never said out loud)

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Coping, Cuddling, Dead Claudia Stilinski, Dead Laura Hale, First Kiss, First Meetings, Hand Jobs, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Nightmares, Search Parties, Sexual Content, Slow Build, elements of ptsd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:26:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6372871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon their first meeting, Derek and Stiles don't get along.  Stiles is still cresting the waves of a reckless adolescence, using his father’s influence to keep a (mostly) clean record.  Derek is brusque and unfriendly but otherwise impossible to read.  They end up as partners at a search party by pure happenstance.</p>
<p>They are, quite potentially, the worst possible pair.</p>
<p>But that's before they find the body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me a piece of your history (that you've never said out loud)

**Author's Note:**

> this has been in the works for a year and a half and was a) originally meant to be a 400 word drabble and b) sort of based off part of a Canadian film called _Exotica._
> 
> title from [The Silence](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=00p2FW7ZLVo) by Bastille.

The sun is still low in the sky, barely peeking above the horizon. There's a chill still present in the air, but one that won't be around for long. The field that spreads out as far as the eye can see is still lightly dusted with dew that’s ready to soak through pant legs and tattered shoes. 

If Stiles had it his way, he would still be in his bed, face smushed into his pillows, dreaming about something (or, more realistically, someone) amazing. But unfortunately, he still has fifty hours of community service that he has to complete if he wants to meet the conditions of his probation and according to his dad, joining an early morning search party for a missing guy from across town will knock off at least three hours. 

Stiles still thinks that he would rather be in bed. Strong as his morbid curiosity is, his desire for sleep is stronger.

But the choice wasn't his and so now, only a little while after dawn, he's standing at the back of a small cluster of people, most of whom are listening intently to his father's instructions. There are a few people who are staring off into the field with uneasy faces, like they're regretting volunteering. There are a few others, mainly young guys in their early twenties, who just look bored and Stiles has a feeling they're probably trying to knock some time off their own community service hours. 

And then there's the guy on his right, who has short, dark hair spiked up at the front and a strong jaw covered in stubble black as the leather jacket he's wearing. He's staring off into the field as well but he doesn't look queasy or bored. His face is flat, impassive, frustratingly hard to read. He's also obviously not listening to a single word the sheriff is saying so Stiles sidles closer to him and clears his throat slightly. He knows enough about how these things works; might as well save his dad the work of finding him a partner.

"Hey." The guy turns his head just enough to look at Stiles; the rest of him doesn't move. His staring gets unnerving after only a few seconds and Stiles can't help but shudder slightly as paranoia starts fluttering around his brain. His dad has told him that sometimes, when they're dealing with missing persons cases or homicides, the culprit will insert themselves into the investigation. They get off on it, or something like that, and it would just be Stiles' luck to partner up with some creep. 

He manages to reel these thoughts in as quickly as they appeared and he tries to make conversation again.

“What brings you out here this morning?” he asks and this time, the man full on _glares_ at him and arches one of his thick, black eyebrows.

Stiles wonders if it's too late for him to sneak back home.

“The same reason everyone else is here,” the man says and his voice is... different, from what Stiles had expected. It's not as deep, a little thick with sleep, and amazingly, it only sounds a little irritated. The sheriff seems to be done dispersing his instructions; people are beginning to head towards the field, clustered in small groups of two and three.

“Why are _you_ here?”

“Huh? Oh, I'm the sheriff's kid,” Stiles shrugs, raising his travel mug and taking a gulp of warm coffee. It's always best to get that fact out of the way as soon as possible. “He didn't give me much of a choice.” It isn't _exactly_ a lie; it's a half-truth, at the worst. The man makes a noise of acknowledgment but before he can say anything, Stiles' dad steps away from the dispersing crowd and makes a beeline towards them.

“Stiles, did you find a partner?” he asks as he gets closer, looking back over his shoulder at the people slowly trudging through the knee high grass.

“Yep, right here,” he says, punching the man lightly on the arm. The glare he gets back is positively terrifying but by the time the sheriff turns to look at the guy, he's managed to twist his mouth into something closer to a pained grimace than a smile.

“You're okay with that?” the sheriff asks, looking back and forth between the two of them. Stiles sighs; he knows the speech his dad is about to give. “Stiles can be hard to handle sometimes, I understand if you'd rather search on your own.”

“I grew up in a large family,” the man says firmly. “I can deal with hard to handle. I just want to help, if I can.” The sheriff sighs and gives Stiles a look, a look that he knows means _we'll talk about this later._

“Okay. You two take the final search strip, down there. Try not to wander too far outside the boundaries. And Stiles?”

“Yeah, Dad?”

“If you see anything, _don't_ touch it. Yell for one of us. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it Dad. Can we go now?” His dad just sighs again and waves them away and Stiles takes another sip of coffee as he starts heading towards the end of the field. For a few moments, he thinks that he left Leather Jacket Guy behind but then he hears footsteps brushing through the grass and the man appears beside him, hands shoved firmly in the pockets of his dark jeans. Stiles' paranoia about the guy has abated slightly, but he still doesn't seem to be much of a conversationalist, so Stiles tries to keep his mouth shut. He doesn't really want to get his head bitten off. 

But even with the hushed whispers carrying across the field and the sound of the grass brushing against their legs, it's too damn quiet, so it's only a matter of time before he blurts something out. 

“What's your name?” 

“Is that important?” 

“What?” Stiles splutters, momentarily taken by surprise. “No, I guess. Just... trying to make conversation, or whatever. It's creepy out here. It's too quiet.” He scuffs the ground with his toes, just for the extra sound it makes. The dew is starting to evaporate under the early morning sun, but there's still enough to start soaking through his sneakers and it makes his toes curl as he looks back and forth for anything unusual.

“Derek,” the man belatedly responds. He even sticks his hand out to the side and Stiles awkwardly contorts his fingers so that they can shake for a fraction of a second. It's long enough to feel that the guy's palms are rough and callused. 

“Cool. I'm Stiles.”

“I heard your father say that earlier.”

“Oh, yeah. Right. Sorry,” Stiles mutters, sweeping his eyes across the grass in front of them. Not a single blade looks out of place. His coffee cup is empty now, hanging loosely from the ends of his fingertips, more a nuisance than anything. He briefly considers setting it down on the ground and retrieving it once they've finished the search, but he knows that he'll either forget about it or get hell from his dad for potentially disturbing a crime scene. 

“Are you still in school?” While Stiles appreciates Derek’s attempt to initiate conversation, the words are so stilted that it's almost laughable. 

“Sort of,” he shrugs. “I just graduated from high school. I'm starting at UBH in the fall if I...” He manages to bite back a self-incriminating statement about his community service hours (which would inevitably lead to the awkward question of what he did to deserve those hours, and frankly, that isn't something Stiles wants to talk to a total stranger about) so he just shrugs again. 

“If everything goes according to plan,” he finishes with a grin. It seems totally out of place, considering the environment they're in, but Stiles hasn't seen anything that would render the field a crime scene. Neither, for that matter, has anyone else, based on the silence coming from the groups beside them. Even though Derek doesn't smile back, he also doesn’t glare again, so Stiles can't help but count that as a small victory.

The next few moments are filled with more stilted small talk. Stiles finds out that Derek is twenty-three and a carpenter, who just moved back to Beacon Hills after a few years away. He has one sister that lives in Brazil and a preference for dogs over cats and the brighter it gets outside, the harder it is for Stiles to deny that the guy is totally gorgeous in an angry, broody way. 

His personality, on the other hand, is still frustratingly hard to get a grip on. Even when he's talking about things he seems to enjoy, like woodworking, his face remains flat When one of Stiles’ more absurd jokes actually makes the corner of Derek's mouth twitch, he doesn't know whether to cheer or pass out from exhaustion. Simple conversation with someone should _not_ be so difficult. 

After ten long minutes of walking through the grass, Stiles' shoes are completely soaked. When he curls his toes, he can hear his socks squishing. Thankfully, they only have to walk about the length of a lacrosse field before the grass trails off into a grove of thick trees. Stiles is sure that by midday, the forest will be swarming with deputies as well, but he has no plans of being there. Even despite his morning dose of coffee, his bed is calling to him. 

He's so busy answering one of Derek's questions that he nearly trips over the boy. He's curled up in a slight depression on the ground, knees and arms pulled up towards his chest. Only his nose pokes out of his mass of long, blonde curly hair. He's wearing a red t-shirt and cargo shorts and there's a beaten-up backpack beside him, like he was coming home from a party and passed out in the first cozy place he could find. That's a situation that Stiles himself is familiar with so he crouches down, setting his coffee cup aside. 

“Hey buddy, party's over,” he says. “You're probably gonna be grounded for a month.” The boy doesn't stir so Stiles reaches his hand out, thinking that maybe he just needs to be shaken out of his stupor.

“Didn't your dad say-”

“Derek, it's fine,” Stiles interrupts with a snort, laying his hand on the boy's elbow, ready to give him a shake. 

It's not fine. It is the furthest thing from fine. 

As soon as Stiles' fingers touch the boy's skin, his mouth goes bone-dry. The boy’s flesh is cold ( _corpse-cold_ is what Stiles’ brain screams) and there's no give to his skin. It's like pushing on a statue. Now that he's this close to him, Stiles can see that the boy's throat is speckled slightly with red dots. There's a smell too, something like rotten vegetables that the sun thankfully hasn't had a chance to amplify yet. 

“Oh God,” Stiles groans, yanking his hand back. The movement manages to brush some of the boy's hair away from his face and that's when Stiles sees the eyes; half-open, light blue, glazed over and completely unseeing. 

“Oh God,” he repeats. He tries to get up and just ends up stumbling, falling back onto his ass. He scoots backwards, pushing with his hands and feet, trying so hard to get away from those cold, blank eyes. He slams into Derek's leg and just keeps going, his fingers digging into the loose dirt, soaking his jeans with the last bits of dew. He can feel his throat working and he _knows_ that he's making sounds, but it's not until his father comes barreling into sight that Stiles realizes he's screaming for his dad. 

After that, everything is a blur. Stiles is vaguely aware of hearing other people screaming, people who managed to glimpse the body before the deputies established a firm perimeter. Someone spirits him away back to his dad's personal vehicle, but Stiles doesn't know who it is. He stares at the ground the whole time, but that isn't enough to get rid of the feeling that those damn dead eyes are still staring at him. 

He can still feel cold flesh against his fingertips. 

By the time he hears a knock on the back window of the car, he's rubbed his fingers raw against the rough, damp fabric of his jeans. When he looks up, Derek is standing there and wordlessly, Stiles opens the door and moves over until he's pressed against the opposite side of the vehicle. Through the windshield, he can see his dad coming slowly across the field, looking defeated and exhausted. 

“They need to interview us,” Derek says.

“I know,” Stiles replies. “I know how this all works.” It's a cocky thing to say but it's the truth. Even if Stiles' dad didn't have a tendency to spill details that should have remained within the walls of his office, it's only been a little over two months since Stiles' last interview with some form of law enforcement. He has the process down to a science. When he glances over, he catches Derek's eye. The other man is staring at him, with a clenched jaw and eyes that look almost pitiful. 

Or maybe they're wary. It's hard to tell and that just makes Stiles more frustrated. He's usually great at reading people but Derek, this guy he's known for all of half an hour, is like reading goddamn Latin. All the material is there but Stiles can't interpret it. 

He _really_ wishes he'd chosen to partner up with one of the other teenagers doing community service hours. They would have been easy to read, would have maybe cracked a joke or two. They wouldn't have fumbled through small talk like it caused them physical pain.

Most importantly of all, if he'd been with one of them, his fingers wouldn't feel cold and slimy.

“Do you think that I did it?” he blurts out. Part of him expects that it'll get a rise out of Derek, that it'll elicit some response that Stiles can identify and understand. The other part of him doesn't know why he even gives a fuck. Derek keeps staring at him for a few moments before he shakes his head.

“No,” he says firmly, tugging at the sleeves of his jacket and pulling them down over his wrists. Before Stiles can push any further, his dad climbs into the front seat and everything blurs again. There are hours of interviews, hours of Stiles repeating the same facts over and over again, saying exactly where he touched the body and why and struggling not to wipe his fingertips on his jeans again. 

By the time he's allowed to leave (for now; he knows that there will be more repeating in the future, maybe even testifying if they catch whoever killed the boy), the sun is drifting back towards the horizon. He's missed most of a clear, warm June day. His jeans are stiff with dirt and his socks are still damp inside his sneakers. As he heads back out to his Jeep (which someone was nice enough to drive over from the field), he can't help but peek in the other interrogation and conference rooms he passes, craning his neck for a glimpse of a black leather jacket and hair to match. 

But by the looks of things, Derek's already gone. Even if he _was_ still there, Stiles doesn't know what he would say. He doesn't even know if he wants to say anything at all. He's kind of sick of talking. 

His phone has been locked in the glove compartment all day and when Stiles checks, there's six missed texts from his best friend. Before he answers them, he squirts a ridiculous amount of hand sanitizer onto his fingers and rests his forehead against the steering wheel, nostrils stuffed with the smell of alcohol.

Stiles can still smell the boy. He can still _feel_ him.

&.

The next week unfolds as slowly as possible.

On day one, Stiles’ best friend comes over and asks if he’s okay. As soon as the pleasantries are over, Scott leans closer, glancing at the bedroom window like he expects a reporter or someone to be on the other side.

“What was it like?” he asks in a hushed tone, face flushed red with embarrassment as soon as the words leave his mouth. Talking about bodies has always been Stiles' forte and the words sound _wrong_ coming from Scott, who still trips over his words when he talks to his girlfriend. “I mean, was it horrible?” 

Stiles shrugs, takes a sip of water and lies. 

“I was only around him for a few seconds. It still doesn't even seem real, you know?” Scott nods, like he understands completely.

“Well, I'm here if you need to talk about it or anything. You know that, right?” Stiles nods and Scott flashes him a giant grin before pulling a video game out of his bag and sliding it into the Xbox. That's the last of it.

On day three, the dead boy's stepfather is officially arrested for murder. 

On day five, at one o'clock in the morning, Stiles tiptoes down the stairs into his father's office. There are a number of boxes stacked in the corners, boxes that have _do not remove from evidence room_ stenciled on them. Stiles just smirks, as he always does; his dad can say whatever he wants about Stiles' various indiscretions, but rulebreaking is just something that runs in their family. There are a number of files spread across the cluttered desk as well, some marked with grease stains from the fast food his dad isn't supposed to be eating.

His father's copy of the boy's case file is sitting right on top of the stack and Stiles carefully picks it up, willing his limbs to stay still so as not to knock anything else out of place. It's not the first file he's lifted from his dad's desk, not by a long shot, but he doesn't want it to be the first file his dad _knows_ that he's lifted. 

(Sure, he probably already suspects, based on the incident that took place at the sheriff’s station two months ago, but if his father had more than a passing suspicion, Stiles is pretty sure that he would have bought a lock.)

There are about forty pieces of paper within the file and it takes forty-five arduous minutes to scan them all onto his laptop. By the time his dad wakes up for the morning shift, the file has been back on his desk for at least three hours. Stiles is on his third read-through of the information, his eyes sore and dry. The sun is just a sliver coming up over the horizon and when Stiles' dad shuffles by, heading downstairs to make coffee, he fails to stifle a massive yawn.

Stiles doesn't hold it against him.

On day seven, something snaps. Stiles doesn't think he's gotten more than ten hours of good, decent sleep since the day of the search party. He'd read the file hoping that it would fix things, that it would somehow soothe the restlessness of his mind but if anything, it's made it worse. He keeps snapping awake with shivers coursing down his spine and the intense feeling of being stared at by someone who can’t possibly be staring at _anything._

He can't talk to Scott about it. He doesn't want to burden his best friend with it and besides, he wouldn't understand. His dad probably would, but Stiles just can't picture having that conversation. Maybe it's because his dad's the sheriff, or maybe because Stiles doesn't want to tell his dad that he's been reading his homicide files for _years_ , flipping through the autopsy reports and incident logs, gazing at the glossy photos of bodies found in homes and alleys and abandoned warehouses. 

He doesn't want to tell his dad that looking at bodies for curiosity's sake is light years away from actually _touching_ one. He's seen disappointment flicker across his father's face far too many times over the last few months. He doesn't want to see it again.

There seems to be only one other option. It's not exactly one that makes sense, but it's the only option that he has nothing to lose from. So he flicks back through the files on his computer until he finds a scan of one of the investigation's first pages, one he only cursorily looked at during his hours of memorization. It's the sign-in sheet for the search party and lo and behold, his own name is at the top, written in his dad's writing rather than his own.

He skims his eyes down the list, finds nothing and repeats the action, forcing himself to go slower, to actually take the time to read each individual name. Finally, just when he's convinced that he was given a false name back at the field, he finds it. It’s near the bottom of the list, printed in neat, narrow letters, the first word nearly obscured by a smear of ink. 

_Derek Hale._

His phone number is written in the next column and thankfully, it’s legible. Stiles doesn't even think about backing out. He punches the number into his cell phone, but swaps two of the digits and ends up with a pizza place instead. It's tempting to order but instead, he hangs up, dials again and this time, after four long rings, he recognizes the voice on the other end of the line.

“Who is this?” Somehow, that greeting doesn't surprise Stiles in the least.

“Stiles,” he says. “The sheriff's kid. We, uh, we found the body together.” It's meant to come out light, but his voice cracks, so that's a colossal fucking failure. 

“How'd you get my number?” Some of the bite has left Derek's voice after his initial statement. His voice is quieter and if anything, he just sounds confused.

“The volunteer sheet. Like I said, I'm the sheriff's kid,” Stiles replies, tacking on a chuckle that's the very definition of forced. 

“Oh, right.” Derek goes quiet again and Stiles runs a hand down his face, sighing. This is going about as well as their small talk. It'd probably be better if he hung up and phoned Scott instead. 

Instead, he blurts out, “Derek, are you okay?”

“Am I okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, fuck, have you gotten any sleep? I know they caught the guy who did it but please say I'm not the only one who hasn't moved past this yet. Or something, I don't know.” The line goes quiet again and if it weren't for the sound of Derek's slow, even breathing, Stiles would be certain that he was hung up on. 

“Are you busy right now?” is what finally comes out of the other man's mouth.

“Uh, no. Not really. Why?” 

“I don't like talking on the phone,” Derek says curtly and Stiles can't help but roll his eyes. “But I want to talk. Just in person, if that's okay.”

“Yeah, yeah that's fine,” Stiles says. “More than alright.”

Derek gives him directions to a small diner out by the highway, the name of which Stiles vaguely recognizes. While he writes them down messily on the nearest piece of paper (a receipt for the last video game he bought), he can't help but think about how his dad would react if he knew what he was up to. After all, he is running off to meet with a grown man at ten o’clock at night, a man who's practically a stranger, who could very well still be a serial killer. 

But at least he's doing it in a public space. And besides, Stiles is fairly convinced that this still isn't at the top of the 'worst things he's ever done' list.

He's just shoved the receipt in his pocket and grabbed his keys, thumb drifting over the end call button, when he hears more words coming from the speaker.

“What?” he asks, bringing his phone back to his ear so quickly that he smacks it against the side of his head.

“Your question from earlier. The answer is no. I'm not.”

Derek hangs up before Stiles can say anything else.

&.

The diner is mostly empty when Stiles arrives. Most of the patrons look like long distance truckers, grabbing a cup of coffee before they hit the road again. It takes Stiles a moment to find Derek; he's sitting in one of the corner booths, facing the door, leather jacket still on. When he catches Stiles' eye, he nods, just the slightest.

“You cold or something?” Stiles asks as he slides into the opposite side of the booth, nodding at Derek's jacket. 

“No,” Derek replies, glancing down at where the sleeves of his jacket are dangling over his wrists. “I wasn't sure if you were going to show up.”

“Hey, I'm not _that_ late,” Stiles retorts. He'd managed to take two wrong turns on the way to the place but still, he didn't think that it took that long to get back on track. “So you can take it off now. If you want to, I mean.” Derek raises an eyebrow at him, but the corner of his mouth twitches in something that might be the precursor to a smile as he shrugs the jacket off. The waitress breezes by at that moment and after Derek orders a coffee, he glances over at Stiles.

“Want anything?” he asks quietly.

“Sure, coffee, I guess,” Stiles says. He knows that he should probably be avoiding caffeine this late at night but it's not like he'll be getting any sleep anyways. At least with a caffeine high he might manage to do something productive. The waitress moves away, lip-syncing to the eighties pop song playing overhead and Stiles is suddenly hit with a wave of doubt and uncertainty. 

Why did he come here? 

“Did you know him?” Much as Stiles may have complained about Derek's ineptness with small talk before, he's grateful for it now. He's not really in the mood to beat around the bush. 

“The guy? No, not at all,” Stiles says, chuckling ruefully. “I know his name was Julian. I can tell you how tall he was, how much he weighed, exactly how he died. I can tell you everything that was in the file. But I'd never seen him before and now, I can't _stop_ seeing him. Like, every time I close my eyes, I can feel him staring at me.” The waitress drops their coffee off and Stiles takes a massive gulp after blowing on it. It's lukewarm and the same consistency as motor oil, but it gives him something to do with his mouth. It keeps him from blurting out more words.

“You can still feel it too, can't you?” Derek asks. “On your hands. Do they feel _wrong_ , no matter how much you wash them?” When Stiles looks up, their eyes lock together. Sure, Stiles only saw the guy for half an hour a week ago, but Derek looks different. He looks pale, his beard is thicker and even the line of his jaw looks more prominent. His green eyes looks hazy (but even then, wow, Stiles can't help but take a second to just _stare_ at them). Maybe it's just the really unflattering, seventies style fluorescent lighting, but Stiles can't feel a little better, knowing that he isn't the only one who looks like they went to hell and back. 

“Yeah,” he swallows. The thick, bitter taste of the coffee lingers on his tongue. He rubs his fingertips on the slightly gritty tabletop, ignoring the bite of pain from his irritated skin. “Yeah, how did you know that?” Derek takes a sip of his coffee and grimaces. He repeats the action and although Stiles is practically jittering out of his seat, wanting so badly to _pushpushpush_ , he manages to stay quiet. He listens to the radio, now playing a song by a hair metal band that was big back in the day and he taps his foot off the floor to the rhythm. He tries not to stare at Derek, but that's far easier said than done. Even when his face is a dark, brewing cloud of emotion, it's impossible to deny how gorgeous he is. 

“That wasn't the first body I've found,” Derek finally says, the words whooshing out of him like the air from a balloon. Stiles smacks his knee off the table's metal support, slopping coffee out of his mug. 

“ _What?_ ” He tries to keep it down, he really does, but Derek (and the passing waitress) still glare at him. “Holy shit. When?” 

“Four years ago. It was my sister.”

“Jesus, Derek, I'm-”

“We were living in New York. My uncle killed her and left her in a dumpster behind our apartment. I knew she was dead, but I just had to be sure. I can still feel it, sometimes.”

“Like touching a cold statue,” Stiles mutters and Derek nods at him, his eyes wide.

“Exactly. When I heard about the search party, I didn't even think. I just thought, maybe, it wouldn't be like... like Laura.” Derek's mouth is pulled into a tight line, like he's in physical pain and Stiles can't help but feel partially responsible for that. There's no reason for the guy to have opened up to him, not about something so personal and serious. Stiles is glad that he did, but he feels indebted to Derek, like he has to tell him something.

He's pretty sure that what he's about to say is possibly going to ruin the rapport they have, ruin the (probably pretty bad) image Derek has likely composed of him, but at the very least, he's not that invested in their relationship. If it goes to shit, he can just move on with his life.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks, waiting for Derek's nod. Once it comes, Stiles takes a moment to try and compose his next sentences in a way that doesn't make him sound like a total asshole. But that seems like too much effort, so he settles on blurting it out however it comes into his mind. “I was only there because I had to be. My dad made it part of my community service hours. I mean, part of me was curious, yeah, but mainly I just wanted to be asleep. I... I didn't even want to _be_ there.” It's a pathetic admission and he knows it but he wants Derek to know exactly who he's talking to. After finally getting a glimpse at Derek's personality, it's only fair that he put some of his cards on the table as well. He takes a deep breath and stares down into the inky black pool of his coffee. Since Derek hasn't said anything else, he might as well finish telling him the story.

“Julian's file isn't the first of my dad's files that I've stolen,” he says. “That's why I'm doing community service hours, because I got caught stealing a file off a desk at the station. It was my bedtime reading. I thought I was immune to all that shit, that it wouldn't bother me after reading so much about it. But fuck, reading it and seeing it? God, they're _so_ different and just... I'm an asshole.” He trails off, watches ripples appear in his coffee as his knee bounces against the underside of the table. 

Derek's silence feels like a physical, tangible thing and Stiles dares not look up. He may be willing to let this guy know his dirty secrets, but that doesn't mean he wants to see disappointment flash across his face.

“Stiles,” Derek finally says quietly. Stiles is pretty sure it's the first time Derek has actually addressed him directly by name and despite his promise to himself, he finds himself looking up. Maybe it's because he's tired, or because of the circumstances of their conversation, but Derek's face is a little easier to read than it was at the field. 

“You're still young,” he continues. “Sometimes it takes something like this to make us grow up. Trust me.” There's weight in those last two words, weight that seems to indicate that there’s more to the story of Derek finding his sister, details that Stiles is curious about but that he knows he won't ever have access to. So he simply nods and finally finishes off the last disgusting dregs of his coffee. 

“God, this stuff is gross,” he mutters and Derek honest-to-goodness huffs out a laugh. It's quiet and seems completely unsuited to the confessions they've been dropping, but Stiles wants to hear it again. It's exactly the sort of sound that has been missing from his life for the past week. 

“It's not usually this bad. Sorry,” he says apologetically. He glances down at his watch and Stiles realizes that the place has nearly emptied out in the last few minutes. It's getting late.

“I should be heading home,” Stiles says as Derek opens his mouth, presumably to say the same thing. He reaches for his wallet, buried deep in the pocket of his jeans but by the time he gets his fingers on it, Derek has dropped a five dollar bill on the table and pulled his jacket back on. 

“Don't worry about it. It's the least I can do, for subjecting you to that coffee.”

They walk quietly out to the parking lot. Derek's car is right outside the door, a sleek, black Camaro that doesn't have a scratch on it. It's a strange choice for a woodworker but, Stiles has to admit, Derek is kind of a strange person.

Not that he's any more normal. Not by a _long_ shot.

“This helped, a lot,” Stiles says as Derek leans against the driver's seat, keys tucked into the palm of his hand. “Seriously. I know that we really got off on the wrong foot, but I just appreciate it, you know?” 

“Laura used to tell me that I wasn't great at giving people a good first impression,” Derek replies. “That hasn't really changed in four years.” A half-smile briefly flits over his lips before he lets his keyring slide to the end of his index finger. 

“If you can't sleep again, you can call me. Anytime,” he adds. “This place is open all night, if you want to get some horrible coffee.”

“Well, that's an offer I couldn't possibly refuse,” Stiles says and Derek huffs out another laugh. It's a sound that Stiles replays the rest of the night and when he jolts awake from a nightmare, a shiver slowly coursing down his spine, the memory of that sound lures him back to sleep.

&.

Two days later, Stiles takes Derek up on his offer.

Scott comes over after his shift at the animal clinic to play some video games and eat greasy pizza. He asks Stiles if he's okay, like he's done every time they've talked since the discovery of Julian's body and, like always, Stiles just shrugs.

“Yeah. I'm getting more sleep.”

“You sure?” Scott asks, looking up from the controller in his hands. “You're looking kind of pale, dude.”

“Sunscreen, man. Lots of sunscreen.” Scott still looks unsure but after a second, he grins and just like that, things are back to normal. 

The normalcy only lasts for a few hours.

After the video games have worn out their welcome, Stiles throws on a random movie they've both seen dozens of times. He doesn't remember falling asleep but when he jolts awake, he's laying on top of the covers, still in his jeans. The DVD is cycling through the menu music and Stiles fumbles for the remote, squinting against the harsh glare from the television. Even after he turns off the TV, the room is still flooded with light from the full moon glowing outside. Stiles slides off the bed so that he can tug the curtains shut and absently, just as his fingers grip the worn fabric of the drapes, he looks back over his shoulder, just to check on Scott, who's asleep on the air mattress on the floor, the one that  
always ends up deflated by the morning.

Except he doesn't see Scott.

Instead, the moon is alighting upon pale skin, a ghost-white arm pressed against the blankets. Stiles can just barely make out long strands of blonde hair brushing against that skin, skin that wouldn't yield if he touched it. 

He swallows and slams his eyes closed, digging his fingernails into his palms. He counts to ten and when he opens his eyes again, it's just Scott lying there, passed out on his stomach, head cradled on his arms.

Stiles doesn't bother to pull the curtains shut. Instead, he grabs his phone from his bedside table and heads out into the hall, making a wide berth around the air mattress. Just in case.

According to his phone, it's three in the morning, so he doesn't expect Derek to answer, even if he had said _call me anytime_. He just plans on leaving a message, or something like that. He waits until he's down in the living room to start dialing but by the second ring, he's starting to regret it. What exactly is he going to say? 

_Hey man, I couldn't sleep and uh, I think I just had a hallucination? Maybe? Call me back!_

Yeah, it's a stupid idea.

But before he can back out, there's a click and Derek's voice comes through. It doesn't sound like the voice of someone who was yanked out of sleep; he sounds completely awake.

“Hey, Stiles,” he says. “Couldn't sleep?”

“Funny story, I _was_ sleeping just fine,” Stiles says. On second thought, he gets up from the living room, heading for the front door. He's sure that it isn't going to be a long conversation but still, his dad's bedroom is right above the living room and he doesn't want to risk waking him up, which would inevitably lead to some awkward questions. “But that was before I woke up and thought that there was a dead person lying on my floor.” He pulls the door shut behind him, quiet as he can possibly be, before he sits down on the front step. It's a cool, quiet night and Stiles can feel goosebumps rising on his exposed arms, but being outside, strangely enough, makes him feel safer.

“Man, I sound crazy, don't I?” He sighs, leaning his head back against the door. 

“No,” Derek says firmly. “It's normal, for stuff like that to happen. I still think I see Laura sometimes, in crowds. There'll be someone with her hair, or who's walking the same way and for a few seconds, I just... forget.” 

“That hasn't happened to me yet,” Stiles admits. He's fairly certain that's only because he hasn't really gone anywhere in the last week, with the exception of the diner and Scott's house. He's been trying to avoid interaction with people. “But I don't even know why it's still affecting me. It's not like I knew him or anything. None of those pictures used to bother me, at all.”

“He was a _person_ , Stiles, whether or not you knew him. He wasn't just some picture.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles groans, running a hand through his hair. It's times like this that he misses his buzzcut, misses the reassuring rasp of prickly hair against his palm. For a few, brief seconds, his mind wanders to Derek's stubble and he wonders if it would feel the same way if he ran his palm along Derek's cheek and over the line of his jaw. 

He literally shakes the thought out of his head before he gets too caught up in his daydream.

“I'm gonna be honest, I don't really wanna talk about that stuff right now,” he says, following the headlights of a car as it drives by. “I kind of just want a distraction for a few minutes, if that's cool. Unless you hate talking on the phone that much.” 

“I'm sure I can deal with it for a few minutes,” Derek says. “But not for too long. I'm covered in sawdust, it's going to start itching pretty soon.” Stiles can't help but snort; was that an attempt at actual humor that he just detected?

“Why the hell are you covered in sawdust at three in the morning?” he asks and from there, the conversation flows freely. Derek talks about the table he's custom-making for someone and from there, they move into talking about some of the other projects he's worked on. At some point, Stiles starts talking about some of the misadventures he's gotten into while doing some of his community service hours with Scott at the animal clinic. 

Sure, it isn't the smoothest conversation in the world. There are still a few awkward pauses, a few spots where Stiles doesn't know if he should forge ahead or let Derek get a word in, but those pauses seem to get shorter and shorter the longer they talk.

Best of all, Stiles gets to hear Derek's strange laugh again, more than once. It definitely makes up for the stilted parts of their conversation.

Hell, it even makes up for Derek's shitty taste in coffee.

By the time they stop talking, Stiles is so tired that he can hardly string together a thought. He collapses on his bed, drops his phone beside his pillow and when he wakes up again, the sun is streaming through the curtains and Scott is eating a bowl of cereal and watching another movie.

“How'd you sleep?” he asks through a mouthful of Froot Loops.

“Great,” Stiles says and for the first time in nearly a week, it's not a complete lie.

&.

Stiles takes Derek up on his offer a number of times. He calls him at all times of the day; from four in the morning, when he wakes up with a shiver down his spine, to just after noon, when he comes back from the grocery store with empty hands because he _swore_ he saw Julian standing in line at one of the cash registers, skin bone white under the harsh lights. Sometimes, they talk for hours, about everything and nothing. Other times, it's just a quick _meet you at the diner in twenty minutes?_

Derek has shown up every time he’s asked. Stiles is starting to wonder if the guy ever sleeps. 

But although they go through cup after cup of gross diner coffee together and even though it's gotten way easier to talk (although Derek still sometimes uses his eyebrows instead of his words), two weeks pass before it's Stiles' phone that rings and not the other way around.

It's a Saturday, just after nine o'clock. There’s a movie playing in the background but Stiles is mainly focused on his laptop, scrolling through UBH's website to see what else he needs to do before school starts. He feels his phone vibrating on his desk, but it takes a moment for it to register in his brain and in his haste to grab it, he nearly falls off his chair.

“Derek? What's up?” he asks, grabbing the edge of his desk to steady himself. “Is everything alright?” 

“Do you want to come over?” It's not the first time Derek has answered a question with a question and it's definitely not the first time Derek has surprised him with something he's said, but this is still completely unexpected.

“Come over? Like, to your place?” Stiles stammers. “Really?”

“Yeah. Unless you don't want to, the diner-”

“No, Derek, I want to,” he interrupts, before taking a second to grab a few deep breaths so that he doesn't sound totally desperate. “If I drink any more diner coffee, I might throw up. Where do you live?” 

He jots down Derek's directions on the nearest piece of paper, scoops up his keys and bounds down the stairs, tugging a hoodie on along the way. He's just managed to get both his arms through the sleeves when he hears someone purposefully clearing their throat. He backtracks, one foot half-jammed into a shoe, to the door of his dad's office. His dad is sitting at his desk, glasses nearly sliding off his nose, surrounded by pens and stained coffee mugs.

“Heading somewhere?” he asks.

“Yeah, my friend just called,” Stiles says, trying not to betray the stupid grin threatening to split his face. “Asked if I wanted to come over.”

“Is this the same one that you've been meeting at the diner for the last few weeks?”

“Yeah. Wait, how do you know that?” His dad just rolls his eyes and taps his chest, where his badge normally sits. 

“It's my job to know. Don't do anything stupid and don't forget, you're supposed to be at the clinic tomorrow with Scott.”

“Yeah, I know, I'll be there. Bye, Dad.” 

The drive over to the address Derek gave him doesn't take long, but Stiles spends the entire time jittering, hands drumming off his steering wheel. He doesn't know why he's so worked up. Yeah, he might have a _little_ crush on Derek, but it's nothing serious and there's definitely no reason for him to get his hopes up. 

But still, that doesn't stop his mind from presenting him with a number of possible scenarios, each more inappropriate than the next. By the time he finds the place, his face is definitely flushed. 

The address Derek has given him is an apartment building that looks mostly empty, with only a few lights on in the entire place. Derek lives on the top floor and as the elevator screeches and groans with alarming frequency, Stiles begins to think that taking the stairs would have been a better option. Finally, the doors open and he bolts out, just in case the thing decides to change its mind and plummet back to the ground. There's only one door on the landing, a massive sliding one that's half-open. There's an absolutely horrendous screeching noise coming from within it and Stiles winces as he pokes his head inside, glancing around to make sure he's not wandering into somebody else's place.

From his vantage point, he can only see one large room. Half of it appears to be split between a kitchen and a typical living room, albeit an under furnished one. The other half is definitely a workshop of some kind, with plastic drop sheets on the floor and a number of shiny, vaguely intimidating tools hanging on the walls. The noise seems to be coming from that side of the loft and when he fully steps inside, he finds Derek. He's facing the door, hunched slightly over a table that he appears to be sanding, sending wood dust into the air. His arms are exposed, thanks to the tank top he's wearing and Stiles does _not_ stare, not at all. Thankfully, before he can try to figure out how to get Derek's attention, he switches off the machine and pulls his goggles off.

“Sorry, I thought it'd take you longer to get here,” he says, voice slightly raspy.

“You seriously have no faith in my sense of direction,” Stiles says, still standing just inside the door. “I'm not that hopeless.”

“Yeah, I know.” Derek comes around from behind the table and he's wearing _sweatpants_ , which are covered in bits of sawdust as well. “I'll be right back. There’s drinks in the fridge, if you want anything.” He disappears up the spiral staircase in the corner of the room and after a moment of internal debate, Stiles decides to settle on the couch. There's a decent sized television perched on a coffee table, surrounded by boxes that contain DVDs and VHS tapes. There are stacks of books dotted across the room as well, some of them leaning rather precariously. The one on top of the stack nearest to the couch is a true-crime book that Stiles vaguely recognizes and by the time he hears footsteps behind him, he's flipped through the first chapter again.

“I haven't read that one yet,” Derek says, sitting at the opposite end of the couch, dressed in another pair of sweatpants and a loose fitting v-neck. It looks so much like an image from Stiles' brain that he has to pinch himself, just to make sure that he's actually awake and not daydreaming. 

“I think I read it in tenth grade or something,” Stiles says, tossing the book back onto the pile (which wobbles ominously). “I literally read every single one that they had at the library.”

“When did you start reading your dad's files?” It's a question that should make Stiles freak out, that should make him want to get up and stomp out of the loft, or curse Derek out at the very least. Only a few weeks ago, he definitely would have done just that, or hissed _none of your fucking business_. But there's something about Derek that makes Stiles want to actually tell him the truth, to bite back the little white lies he's so accustomed to rolling off his tongue. 

“Around the same time. Maybe a little earlier. I was bored a lot and Dad doesn’t lock them up. What can I say, I'm not exactly good with temptation.” The words come out thicker than he expected and he plasters on a grin, hoping that Derek doesn't think he was coming on to him or anything. 

“So, any specific reason that you called me, or are you just as sick of that coffee as I am?” he asks and Derek snorts even as he shrugs. 

“Yes to the coffee, not really to the other part. I just thought that we could hang out somewhere where the waitress isn't going to glare at us every ten minutes.”

“Hey, that's all you,” Stiles says. “She _never_ glares at me.” His attempt at sounding serious fails and even though Derek raises an eyebrow at him, he also laughs. Not just the huff Stiles has become accustomed to but a true, genuine laugh.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Stiles.” 

_You help me sleep at night_. The words are sitting right on the tip of Stiles' tongue but he swallows them back. Him and Derek have fallen into a good rapport, something light years away from the terse interaction between them during the search party. He doesn't want to risk fucking up that dynamic by saying something super sappy, no matter how true it is.

So instead, he nudges one of the boxes sitting beside the coffee table and asks: “So what kind of movies do you keep around this place?”

&.

As it turns out, Derek's movie collection is actually fairly decent, if a bit heavy on biopics and historical dramas. But there's also a fair amount of sci-fi and, perhaps most importantly of all, there's _Star Wars._

They're maybe twenty minutes into the movie and Stiles has already chugged back a can of soda when Derek clears his throat, fingers tapping off the beer bottle between his knees.

“I lied earlier,” he says and even though Stiles tries to ignore it, his stomach churns slightly. “About inviting you over. I had a reason.”

“Yeah? What was it?” Stiles asks. Derek doesn't answer for a few moments; his eyes are leveled on the screen, but Stiles recognizes his facial expression. It's the same one Derek always gets before he reveals something personal, somehow hesitant and thoughtful at the same time.

“My uncle called me today. From prison. It was a collect call, I hung up as soon as the operator told me where it was coming from.”

“Was that the first time he's tried to talk to you?” Stiles makes sure to watch Derek's face, to make sure he isn't going to overstep any boundaries. Derek shakes his head, takes a swallow of beer and winces.

“No. He used to write letters, but I never opened them. He's always been persistent though.” He turns his head to look at Stiles and for a few moments, he looks so young that Stiles is actually taken aback. 

“I don't know, I just didn't really feel like thinking about it all night. You help me get my mind off things, for some reason.”

“Really?” Derek nods and Stiles feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He smiles and Derek mirrors the action, mouth quirking up just slightly.

“You too,” Stiles says. There's so much more he could say; he could probably write an _essay_ on how much Derek has helped him over the last few weeks, but he doesn't want to sound like a total sap and scare the dude away. 

Besides, he has a feeling that Derek just knows, somehow. So instead, he just repeats, “You too, Derek,” and smiles wider and maybe, just maybe, shifts a little closer to Derek on the couch.

By the time they finish the first movie, it's past midnight and Stiles' eyes are starting to droop. But he's not ready to go home yet and when Derek pulls _The Empire Strikes Back_ out of a box and looks back over his shoulder, Stiles grins and flashes a thumbs up. He chugs another soda in the hopes of getting a little bit more energy but if anything, it just makes him more tired. After a few moments, he shifts positions, bracing his back against the armrest and swinging his legs up until his toes are just brushing against Derek's legs. If Derek is bothered by it, he doesn't show any signs of it. If anything, he looks totally relaxed. His shoulders are slumped and he has one arm tossed over the back of the couch. His now empty beer bottle is still sitting in his lap and Stiles wonders if Derek would give him a beer if he asked.

But that's for next time. For now, Stiles knows that he should be leaving. His eyes keep closing and his head keeps bobbing forward, painfully snapping back every few seconds. He should be going back home, to his own bed, but Derek's couch is just so comfortable and truthfully, driving when he's so tired doesn't seem like such a good idea. Maybe he just needs to shut his eyes for a few moments, to rest up just enough so that he doesn't pass out behind the wheel of his Jeep.

The next time his eyes slip closed, he doesn't fight it. He can still hear the movie playing, but intermittently. At one point, he realizes that his legs are moving, being tugged by a pair of warm hands wrapped around his calves until they're stretched out across Derek's lap, toes pressed into the opposite armrest. 

“Better?” Derek asks quietly. 

“Yeah,” Stiles murmurs, wriggling further into the couch. “Wake me up when the movie's over. Gotta go home. Just need a nap.”

“Okay. I will.”

&.

When Stiles wakes up again, his mouth feels gross and filmy. After he blinks a few times, he realizes that there's something across his legs and when he looks at the other end of the couch, he can't help but smile slightly.

Derek's sleeping position looks the furthest thing from comfortable. His head is lolled down towards his shoulder, which just makes the kink in Stiles' own neck throb slightly. His arms are draped over Stiles' legs, fingers loosely curled around his ankle and Stiles takes a moment to close his eyes again, just in case it's all a dream.

But when he opens them, Derek is still there, breathing softly. The room is full of bright sunlight and the television is still showing the DVD menu for _The Empire Strikes Back._ He's definitely slept longer than he intended to but still, it can't be _that_ late. 

When he finally gets around to fishing his phone out of his pocket, he has to blink a few times, just to make sure that he's not reading the time wrong. But no, even after he rubs his eyes until he's seeing fireworks, his phone continues to tell him that it's eleven o'clock in the morning, a full two hours after he was supposed to show up at the clinic to get some more of his community service hours done. 

Fuck.

He doesn't want to wake Derek up; uncomfortable as the guy looks, it seems like he's legitimately sleeping. But the instant he starts inching his legs out from underneath Derek's arms, the man doesn't so much stir as he does _jolt_ awake, head snapping back and forth.

“Derek, it's okay,” he says quickly, leaning forward and dropping his hand on Derek's shoulder. “But I slept in, I gotta get going.”

“Oh. Damn,” Derek sighs, collapsing back against the cushions. “I'm sorry. I was supposed to wake you up.”

“Hey, it's fine. You were tired,” Stiles shrugs. “You gotta sleep at some point, dude.” 

“Don't call me that.” It's not the first time he's complained about Stiles' use of the word and Stiles is fairly certain that it won't be the last. As he heads for the door, scrubbing a hand through his disheveled hair, an idea comes to him and before he can even try and reign it in, he blurts it out.

“Hey, do you wanna finish the trilogy sometimes?” he asks, nodding his chin towards the television. “I mean, no point in stopping halfway through, right?” 

“Sure. Whenever works best for you, Stiles. Now get out, you're late enough as it is.”

Well, Stiles has certainly had _worse_ send-offs.

He stops at home to switch clothes and brush his teeth and by the time he actually makes it to the animal clinic, it's just after noon. He stumbles through the back door and nearly crashes into Scott, who is in the process of bringing a garbage bag out to the dumpster.

“Dude, I called you like four times,” Scott says, sliding by Stiles out into the alley. “Where were you?”

“Derek's place. I fell asleep on his couch.”

“Wait, what? Derek? As in, the guy you've been seeing at the diner? You went to his _house_?”

Stiles sighs. Apparently, he has quite a bit of explaining to do.

&.

The end of summer is almost within sight.

Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration. More realistically, the end of July is almost within sight but after that, there's only three weeks until Stiles moves into his residence at UBH. It's a short stretch of time and he's sure that for a lot of kids, this is when they start freaking out, wondering if they've made the right choice of school, when the summer parties really start amping up as people try to hold on to the point in their lives where their only real worry was the SATs.

Stiles knows exactly how he's going to spend those three weeks.

For starters, he still has to complete thirty more hours of community service. Thankfully, that will be easy enough to do, so long as Scott's boss lets him continue to volunteer at the animal clinic. He's also determined to make Scott watch _Star Wars_ before the end of the summer but, seeing as he's been trying to get him to watch it for nearly ten years (with no success), he'll be content to just play round after round of Halo whenever Scott isn't working or busy with his girlfriend. Then there's the administrative shit, the signing up for (and switching out of) classes, checking the school's website to see if his textbooks have been posted in the bookstore. There's dinner with his dad, at least once a week, usually consisting of pizza or some other take-out.

The time he has left after all of that? Well, that's for Derek. 

They've entirely stopped going to the diner. Instead, Stiles pops over to Derek's loft at least twice a week (usually more, if he's being honest with himself) and, more often than not, they end up falling asleep on the couch with a movie playing. He’s stopped asking before he drapes his legs over Derek's lap and Derek never stops him from doing so, or expresses even a tad of discomfort. If anything, it seems to make him more relaxed. 

The days where his crush on Derek was something quiet and easy to ignore are definitely over. Now, it's a constantly simmering thing, always there, threatening to spill over the surface. Sometimes, it's physically painful to hold it back, to resist blurting out _I like you_. Sometimes, he can't help but wonder if that wouldn't be a good thing. After all, while Derek's still brusque and quiet, he's definitely let his guard down a little bit, especially when it comes to touch.

It goes beyond just letting Stiles use him as a footrest. Sometimes, if Stiles is sitting up, rather than sprawling out, Derek will drape his arm over the back of the sofa and, every so often, brush his fingers along Stiles' shoulder, in a fashion too rhythmic for it to be an accident. Sometimes, when they're both in the kitchen, as Stiles tries to stay out of Derek's way while he cooks, Derek will lay a hand on his lower back or his shoulder as he slides by, pulling something out of the freezer or the oven. 

Sometimes, those little touches give Stiles hope that he isn't the only one biting back words.

But that's only sometimes. After all, Stiles knows plenty of people who are just naturally tactile by nature (Scott being one of them). It seems more likely that Derek isn't even conscious of what he's doing, of the way that Stiles' skin seems to burn for a few moments every time they touch. 

If it was anyone else, Stiles would run. He'd take off, before his impulses eventually got the best of him and resulted in another rejection that frankly, he isn’t prepared to deal with. But in this case, that isn't a realistic option. They're been there for each other too much, used each other as crutches on the nights where Stiles couldn't sleep because he was afraid to wake up to dead eyes and on the days where Derek got another letter from his uncle. Stiles can't just sever a relationship that important because of the other feelings he has.

So he just tries to stay quiet about it, both in the words he says and the things he does. But that's harder said than done and it only gets more difficult as the days and weeks flow by. When they finish watching _The Empire Strikes Back_ , two days after they both fell asleep during it, it's easy enough for Stiles to be content with just having his feet across Derek's legs, occasionally poking him when he expresses some ridiculous opinion about the movie that Stiles doesn't agree with at all.

But by the time they finish the entire series (including the prequels) and _Lord of the Rings_ , it's incredibly hard for Stiles to not do _something_.

That _something_ happens on a Saturday. He tries to get some sleep but he's only been laying there for a few minutes when he starts to get a feeling. It's like something crawling up his spine and he knows that if he just tries to ignore it, he's bound to wake up from a nightmare sooner rather than later. So he grabs his keys, leaves his dad a note to let him know where he is (because that had been the one rule his dad had instituted a few weeks after Julian; if Stiles was going to leave in the middle of the night, he was going to damn well let somebody know where he was) and heads over to Derek's.

Despite the late hour, the loft is ablaze with both light and sound. Derek's working on a chair to match the table he finished a week or so ago and Stiles can already tell that it's going to look great. He waits until Derek turns his band saw off before he calls out his name and when he looks up, Stiles can't help but swallow back a quiet noise. No matter how many times he witnesses it, he doesn't think he'll ever get used to the sight of Derek in a tank top, sawdust and sweat dusting his face.

It _really_ shouldn't be so attractive, but Stiles' brain has never been known for making decisions that make sense.

“Are you hungry?” Derek asks as a greeting, pulling off his goggles and noise-dampeners. “There's some pasta left in the fridge from earlier.” Even before he can open his mouth, Stiles' stomach growls in response. Derek's pasta is kind of one of the most amazing things he's ever tasted so that's an offer he definitely isn't going to pass up.

He helps himself (he knows Derek's kitchen just as well as his own now) and by the time he finishes heating everything up, Derek's on the couch, having changed into another pair of sweatpants and a loose henley. When he gets closer, Stiles can't help but burst out laughing around his forkful of pasta. While his clothes may be different, Derek's hair is still a mess. It's _covered_ in sawdust, flattened in some places from the straps of his goggles and sticking up in others. 

“What are you laughing at?” Derek asks with a raised eyebrow and that just makes Stiles laugh more. He sets his pasta down on the coffee table and collapses onto the couch, trying to pull himself together. 

And that's when the impulse hits him. Before the rational part of his brain can kick in, he sits up on his knees and starts brushing the dust out of Derek's hair. It's remarkably soft underneath his fingers but it refuses to move into any sense of order. It simply flops back into the same position after Stiles is done getting the sawdust out of it. The moment only lasts for a few seconds but when Stiles sits back, he realizes that there's a chance he just crossed a _huge_ line.

“There, you don't look like a lumberjack anymore,” he says weakly. 

“Is there something wrong with looking like a lumberjack?” Derek asks, one eyebrow raised. 

“No,” Stiles splutters, more than a little thrown off by Derek's response, “not if you're into that sort of thing, I guess. Not saying I _am_ , but... hey, what do you wanna watch today?” He clambers off the couch and starts pawing through the nearest box of DVD's for something that won't bore him to tears. By the time he finally settles on another sci-fi title that sounds vaguely familiar, he's mostly sure that the traitorous blush has disappeared from his face. When he whips back around, Derek is in the same spot. His hair is still flopped across his forehead but his raised eyebrow has disappeared, replaced by some other expression that Stiles can't understand.

“Is this one alright?” Stiles asks, holding up the movie. When Derek nods, Stiles gets everything set up and only then does he join Derek on the couch again, slumping against the cushions. 

“I hope this is better than the last random one we watched,” Stiles says after a few moments of silence that feel uncomfortably heavy. 

“Hey, I warned you ahead of time that I hadn't seen that one,” Derek answers, kicking Stiles' foot. “I've seen this one, it's good.”

“Yeah, whatever you say,” Stiles snorts, rolling his eyes. This time, Derek smacks him in the back of the head, so lightly that it doesn't even hurt. But, instead of taking his hand away, it just stays there, pressed gently to the back of Stiles' head. After a few moments, it trails downwards until it's at the base of Stiles' neck, in the perfect place to brush against the longer bits of hair that Stiles has been meaning to get trimmed off. While Derek's thumb brushes over a few stray strands, his pinkie flexes just above the collar of Stiles' t-shirt. 

“Is that okay?” Derek asks. Stiles shivers slightly as Derek's calloused finger brushes over the first knob of his spine. 

“Yeah,” he manages to say eventually, relaxing even further into the couch. “Yeah, that's okay.” 

Truthfully, by the time the movie finishes, Stiles doesn't really know if it was any good or not. Derek's hand had stayed in the same area for the entire running time, occasionally moving to tangle further in Stiles' hair or flit around his collar. They'd been light touches but they'd been _distracting_ and Stiles is pretty sure that he's had goosebumps running up his arms for the last hour and a half. 

“Do you want to watch something else?” Derek asks as the credits start to roll. His pinkie is still tucked under the back of Stiles' shirt and his voice sounds rougher. Watching something else is near the bottom of Stiles' list of things he wants to do with Derek, buried underneath kissing and touching and a whole realm of similar actions.

But instead, he nods. When Derek stands up, his fingers brush up the length of Stiles' neck and, try as he might, Stiles can't bite back the shudder that goes through him. Derek comes back quickly, having thrown in something they've already watched, but Stiles doesn't protest, because as soon as Derek sits back down, his hand fits itself back around Stiles' neck. 

“Still okay?” he asks, fingers spreading through Stiles' hair. It's the furthest thing from okay, it's absolute _torture_ but Stiles still nods, moving as close to Derek as he can get without climbing into the other man's lap. 

“Keep that up and I'm gonna fall asleep,” he says. There's a rasp to his voice that he barely recognizes.

“Wouldn't be the first time you've fallen asleep on me.” 

“Whatever, you like it,” Stiles mumbles. After only a moment of hesitation, he drops his head against Derek's shoulder. He can smell sawdust and faint hints of shower gel and he can feel Derek shift when he sighs quietly.

“Yeah, I kind of do,” Derek replies. He rubs his thumb against the side of Stiles' throat before he drops his hand to Stiles' shoulder, pulling him still closer. Stiles can feel how incredibly warm Derek is, can feel it in all of the places they're pressed together. It's almost overwhelming but yet, it still isn't enough. He doesn't even know if kissing Derek would be enough, but he thinks that it would be worth a try.

But he's just so comfortable and so warm and everything feels so _calm_ that he can't quite summon the spirit to move the few inches necessary to kiss Derek. With each second that ticks by, between the television and the warmth and the feeling of Derek's thumb brushing back and forth against his shoulder, he can feel himself sinking closer and closer towards sleep. 

Kissing can wait. For the moment, having Derek beside him is more than enough.

&.

The last day of summer seems to come out of nowhere, like a full moon punching through the clouds on a previously pitch-black night.

As soon as Stiles’ feet hit the ground, the day is a whirlwind. He alternates between throwing stuff into battered boxes (which he should have packed weeks ago) and calling Scott, trying to figure out what last-minute stuff they still need for their shared dorm room. By the time mid-afternoon comes around, he’s ready to just crash and sleep for the rest of the night, so that he’ll be bright eyed and bushy-tailed for his seven o’clock alarm.

But sleeping is not an option. While UBH is only half an hour away from Derek’s loft, Stiles isn’t sure how often he’ll be able to make it over there, especially during the first month, when he’s still trying to get settled in.

This might be the last opportunity he has (for a while, at least) to see Derek. More than that, it might be the last opportunity he has to actually _say_ something about the storm that’s been brewing between them since that fateful day in June. The last few weeks have been like walking a tightrope, trying to stay balanced while being buffeted on all sides. Stiles has literally composed speeches in his head, stolen lines from movies and pasted them together with his thoughts, just to try and put into words what Derek has meant to him, what he _continues_ to mean to him. 

The end result always sounds like something out of the worst rom-com in history, and Stiles is almost one hundred percent certain that he won’t be able to get the words out when it actually comes down to it, but still, he can’t let the opportunity slip through his fingers without trying. 

They haven’t kissed yet. They’ve come _close_ , hair’s breadth close, more than once. Stiles knows what Derek’s shoulders feel like underneath his fingertips. He knows what the stubble cradling his jaw feels like against the pad of his thumb and he’s well acquainted with the feeling of Derek’s breath brushing against his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. 

But he doesn’t know how their mouths fit together, _if_ they’ll fit together. Crossing that line is a huge step and once it’s crossed, there’s no coming back from it. It’ll officially make them something else, something more.

He _wants_ and he’s terrified for wanting, but on this day, the former outweighs the latter. For now, at least. 

He drinks half a bottle of lukewarm Mountain Dew in one go, quickly brushes his teeth and heads over to Derek’s house with his heart doing overtime. Every radio station sounds like rough static in his ears and he eventually turns it off. The staccato beat of his fingers against the steering wheel isn’t much better, but he manages to bear it until he pulls into Derek’s parking lot.

As soon as the elevator door slides open, he can hear Derek working. It’s gotten to the point where he can tell the tools apart based on the noise they make. This one isn’t as high-pitched as the others. It wavers slightly as Stiles heads towards the door of the loft, which is half-open on its tracks.

It might be the sander. What he knows for sure is that it _isn’t_ the bandsaw. That thing puts shivers up his spine every time, without fail.

He steps inside and pours himself a mug of coffee that’s just on the right side of lukewarm. Derek is facing away from him, wearing a tank top and torn jeans, bent in half over a table that he’s putting the finishing touches on. Stiles hops up onto the counter and simply watches the flex of Derek’s muscles under his shoulders, watches the deliberate movements of his hands as he steers the sander across the table. 

The thought of not being able to take this sight in for a whole month makes _something_ pang inside of him. 

By the time the sander turns off with a shuddering whine, Stiles has drained his coffee and is starting to regret it. His limbs, already jittery to start with, feel like they’re going to tremble right off his body. His mind is racing with possibilities, none of them good, most of them ending with Derek banishing him from the loft. 

He knows that the chances of that happening are low, but still, by the time Derek turns around and removes his goggles and earplugs, Stiles is seriously considering leaving his mug on the counter and bolting for the door.

“How long have you been sitting there?” he asks, running a hand through his hair which is, per usual, covered in bits of sawdust.

“Just a few minutes,” Stiles shrugs, reaching for the coffee pot and emptying the last bits into his cup as Derek crosses the room. “How’s the table?”

“Just needs a coat of varnish. Down,” he adds, tapping Stiles’ knee. Stiles slides off the counter and offers the mug to Derek, who takes a swig and makes a mildly disgusted face.

“Too cold,” he mutters, dumping the rest of the coffee in the sink before leaning against the counter beside Stiles. They’re close enough that Stiles can feel the heat rolling off Derek’s body, can see the flake of sawdust caught at the crux of his shoulder and neck. Their hands bump together and automatically, Stiles flips his palm around, until their fingers slot together. It’s not the first time they’ve done it, but Stiles still hasn’t gotten used to the roughness of Derek’s hands, to the warm, heavy feeling that spreads through him whenever they touch. 

“Do you have to work at the clinic today?” Derek asks, thumb rubbing against Stiles’ knuckle. 

“Not today, not ever again,” Stiles says. “I mean, I don’t _have_ to. Finished my last hours yesterday. Might go back with Scott when we have time though. It’s actually kinda fun, until you get bit.” He holds up his other hand, which still faintly bears a curved mark at the bottom of his thumb where a scared puppy sank their teeth in. 

“At least you didn’t get rabies,” Derek says dryly. It’s the kind of remark he makes every day but something sounds different about it this time. When Stiles glances over, Derek’s eyes are unfocused, like he’s not actually in the room. His eyebrows are furrowed slightly, drawn together in concentration.

“Everything alright?” he asks, squeezing Derek’s hand. “I can go, if you want.” That brings Derek back; he shakes his head, eyebrows smoothing out.

“No,” he says, moving to stand in front of Stiles. “I actually have something to give you.” With his other hand, he reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out something small enough to be engulfed by his fingers. He nudges Stiles’ knuckles and when he unfolds his fingers, Derek drops it into his palm.

It’s a tiny wolf figurine, hand carved and painted black, with carefully rendered blue eyes. The whole thing is finely detailed, from the proportionate snout to the appearance of hair covering the torso. Stiles runs one finger along its spine, down to the end of the slightly raised tail.

“Wolves were my favorite when I was younger. After what happened with Laura,” Derek says quietly, voice hitching slightly over his sister’s name, “my mom gave me one like this to keep in my pocket. To help keep me grounded on the bad days.”

“Did it work?” Stiles asks, swallowing heavily around the lump that has suddenly appeared in his throat. He glances up from the wolf just in time to see Derek nod.

“Most of the time. I thought that it might help you when you’re at school.” Stiles closes his eyes and closes his fingers around the wolf. It fits perfectly in the palm of his hand and he already has a feeling that it’s going to become a permanent fixture of his pockets. 

After a moment, the true weight of the action hits him. Sure, the wolf may be small, but there’s no way that its creation was spontaneous. Derek had to have started it some time ago, maybe right after their first meeting at the diner.

He did this for Stiles. Because he cares.

And just like that, every last one of Stiles’ potential speeches flies from his head, leaving him with only his gut instincts and his _need_ to return the favor, to show Derek that it goes both ways.

“Thank you,” he says, opening his fingers and setting the figurine down on the counter. “I don’t have anything like that for you.” Derek opens his mouth to say something but Stiles shakes his head rapidly and squeezes Derek’s hand before slipping his fingers free. “I did have a speech planned. A whole bunch of them actually and they were all pretty bad, so I’m not going to even try to remember them.” His palms are clammy and he quickly wipes them on his jeans before taking a breath and settling them on Derek’s neck, high enough for his thumbs to brush against the stubbled line of Derek’s jaw. Derek’s pulse thrums faintly against his hand and Stiles steps forward, too fast, his knee bumping against Derek’s.

“Can I? I mean, is that alright?” Derek is quiet for a long time but truthfully, Stiles doesn’t mind. Sure, part of him pulses with impatience but mainly, he’d be okay with staying in this liminal state forever, not kissing Derek but still breathing the same air as him, still feeling him under his fingertips. 

“Are you sure?” Derek finally responds, hands brushing tentatively against Stiles’ waist. “Is this actually what you want?” Stiles can only guess as to the varying levels of meaning behind Derek’s words, but he knows that none of that matters. 

He knows what he wants. Really, he’s known it for months.

So instead of waiting any longer, he closes the space between them and firmly presses his lips against Derek’s. Derek’s fingers twitch slightly at his waist, brushing at the skin where his shirt has pulled up but he otherwise remains motionless. Stiles forces himself to keep things brief, although now that he’s felt Derek’s mouth against his, it’s a struggle to not press forward for more, more, more.

When he opens his eyes, Derek’s are still closed. Belatedly, his lips part slightly and his hands slide around Stiles’ back, fingers splaying out.

“Derek?” Stiles asks, testing the waters slightly. “Are you okay? Was _that_ okay?” Derek’s eyes slowly open and Stiles tracks the bob of his throat as he swallows.

“I’m okay.” Stiles smiles but before he can even move to initiate another kiss, Derek closes the last inches of space between them. His hands are the only thing keeping Stiles’ back from being bruised by the lip of the counter and his mouth is warm and responsive against Stiles’. When Stiles slides his hands up further to push into Derek’s hair, Derek’s groan gets caught between them and sinks down into what feels like Stiles’ very core.

He would have been fine with never kissing Derek. Really. He could have continued living with the movie nights, the endless touching each other, going no further than fingers brushing against the back of necks. 

But now that they’ve stepped over that line, Stiles doesn’t want to ever go back. 

The first brush of Derek’s tongue against his bottom lip comes as a surprise and when his mouth drops open in a gasp, it presses forward to curl against his own. It’s unexpected but he goes with it, trying to erase any possible space between them, trying to pour out everything he meant to say through his actions.

He just hopes that Derek understands.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only because his lungs are aching and his nose hurts from being pressed against Derek’s cheekbone. Derek’s fingers have found their way underneath his shirt and are slowly stroking the skin above his belt. It’s more soothing than arousing, but it still makes his stomach muscles flex and tense. 

“You alright?” he asks, biting back a moan as Derek’s fingers shift and ghost over his hip.

“I don’t think ‘alright’ is a strong enough word,” Derek rumbles, breath puffing against Stiles’ cheek. “But I should really shower off this sawdust before we do anything else.” Stiles laughs as he opens his eyes and drops his hands from Derek’s neck. 

“That might be a good idea.” He brushes some dust from Derek’s hair, which makes it stick up towards the ceiling. “We don’t have to do anything else, if you don’t want. I didn’t really plan anything past this, actually.” 

“I don’t think most people even plan _this_ ,” Derek says with a laugh. He drops his hands from Stiles’ back and leans in for another kiss, brief enough to be called a peck but firmer than one. “We’ll worry about that after. You can wait out here, if you want, or in the bedroom.”

“Bedroom,” Stiles immediately answers, not for any sexual reason. It’s just that he knows the main room of Derek’s loft like he knows his own bedroom. He knows where all the boxes are, (mostly) knows how to navigate around the stacks of movies and books without tripping, knows what parts of the couch squeak more than others. 

On the flip side, he can count on one hand the number of times that he’s been in Derek’s bedroom. He wants to get to know it as well as he knows the living room. He wants to know which of the floorboards creak, how the sun comes slanting through the windows, if it holds in heat in the winter. 

Knowing it will be one step closer to truly knowing Derek and that’s what Stiles wants; all the good, all the bad, anything and everything that Derek wants to tell him. He wants it all and for the first time in his life, he’s completely willing to return the favor. 

He follows Derek into the bedroom and sits on the edge of the bed while Derek grabs an armful of clothes and ducks into the adjoining bathroom. The room is huge and looks even larger due to the lack of furniture. Aside from the bed, there’s a single nightstand (stacked with books), a dresser underneath the window and a laundry basket in the corner. Dust floats through the air, but the floors are swept clean, even the corners. There’s a door leading to, presumably, a closet beside the bathroom and Stiles’ fingers itch with the urge to get up and look in it.

He settles for gnawing on his nails until they’re as short as possible. 

Thankfully, Derek takes short showers, because the longer Stiles waits, the more keyed up he becomes. He’s still convinced that something is going to go wrong, that Derek is going to change his mind while underneath the spray of the water. He starts to wonder if this hasn’t all been some kind of act, some string-a-long that’s about to come crashing to an end.

But that’s before Derek steps out of the bathroom and Stiles forgets how to breathe.

He’s changed into an old, worn pair of sweatpants and a blue tee, damper around the collar from the water droplets still clinging to his neck. His hair is still disheveled and wet and Stiles wants to run his fingers through it, see just how messy he can make it.

“Feel better?” he asks once he manages to pull his voice from his chest. Derek nods and runs his towel over his head again before hanging it off the back of the bathroom door.

“Only thing worse than sawdust is fiberglass.” 

“You mean that pink shit?”

“Yes, that stuff. Stay away from it,” Derek replies, sitting down beside Stiles, so close that their thighs touch. 

“You can deal with all that crap,” Stiles says, unable to stop himself from being distracted by the feeling of Derek’s leg pressed against his. “I’d probably end up swallowing some.”

“Well, it’s in my best interests to keep you from doing that.” Derek ducks his head and smiles and Stiles has to take a moment to mentally photograph the sight, store it away into the part of his mind where he keeps good memories for the terrible days. It’s hard to reconcile the man sitting beside him with the one he first met in that field at the beginning of summer.

In some respects, it feels like that day was years ago, just a faint, glimmering memory. But other days, when Stiles wakes up with a shudder coursing up his spine or sees just a glimpse of someone in a crowd that makes his stomach drop, he’s all too aware that day is only in the very recent past.

He reels himself in, away from those thoughts, to find that Derek is staring at him. His face is open and unguarded and his lips are parted slightly, revealing slivers of straight teeth. In the sunlight coming through the window, he looks almost unbearably gorgeous and if Stiles wasn’t already six feet down the rabbit hole, it’s this sight that would push him over the edge.

He’s not sure who leans in for the kiss first, but the collision of their lips feels like an explosion. Suddenly, sitting side by side just isn’t close enough. Without breaking away from Derek’s mouth, Stiles plants his hands on Derek’s shoulders and slides into his lap, knees braced on either side of his waist.

Or at least that’s what he tries to do. One of his knees slides off the edge of the bed, causing his foot to slam into the floor. Pain shoots up his toe and he hisses as he tries to get back into a comfortable position. 

“C’mon,” Derek huffs patiently, pulling back and wrapping his hands around Stiles’ waist. “We have an entire bed.”

He does have a point. It’s a large bed, too large for one person, Stiles thinks, but it fits the two of them perfectly. The shuffle to the top of the bed is an awkward one and Stiles grazes the back of his head against the headboard but eventually, they end up on their sides, twisted around each other, hands settling on bare skin peeking from underneath clothes.

“Better,” Stiles murmurs in between brushing his lips against Derek’s. “This is way better.”

“Told you,” Derek replies, but if he means to sound smug, he fails miserably. He palms at Stiles’ waist and pulls until he rolls on top in a flurry of elbows and knees. He knows that he’s lost some of his gangliness over the years, that he’s grown into his shoulders and wrists, but he still feels awkward on top of Derek, trying to find a spot where he’s not digging into Derek’s sides or crushing his ribs.

But then he shifts and just like that, he slots between Derek’s slightly spread legs. He fits perfectly, like it’s where he was meant to be all along.

Stiles isn’t sure of how much time passes by. The warmth of the sun fades as it descends, but Derek’s heat more than makes up for its loss. His mouth is starting to get sore and he’s pretty sure that patches of his neck are going to be irritated from the scratch of Derek’s stubble (really, it’s more of a beard by this point). But Stiles has no plans of telling him to stop. He’s been kissed before a few times, parties and flings that’d lasted a few weeks, but never like this. Never in such an all-encompassing way, like this is the only thing keeping him rooted to the ground.

Well, that and the pressure of Derek’s hand at the small of his back. Somewhere along the line, his shirt had gotten pushed up to the bottom of his ribs, but Derek hasn’t made any move to push it up further. His broad hand is just anchored at the dip in Stiles’ spine, pressing in firmly but not painfully.

(Although, truth be told, Stiles doesn’t think he’d mind if Derek left fingerprints behind. A few of them, at least.)

When Stiles ducks down for another kiss, he shifts and absently rolls his hips down against Derek’s thigh, just hard enough to relieve some of the pressure building behind his belt buckle. The noise Derek makes into his mouth is unexpected. It’s almost _wounded_ and as soon as Stiles’ brain processes that, he jolts backwards onto his knees, pushing himself as far away as possible.

“Oh fuck,” he says, flailing his hands for a moment before awkwardly tucking them into his lap. “Are you alright? Did I knee you or something?”

“Come _back_ ,” Derek replies, voice even deeper than usual. His fingers slide into the collar of Stiles’ t-shirt and tug him back down, until they’re slotted together again, with one of Derek’s legs between Stiles’. After a moment of hesitation, Stiles rolls his hips down again and this time, now that the sound isn’t muffled between their mouths, it’s easier to hear it for what it really is. He feels dizzy suddenly, mind too full of possibilities. Derek’s hands slide around his back again but this time, they keep going, up and up and up, fingers wrapped in the hem of his shirt. Stiles has to sit up just slightly to let Derek pull the shirt over his head. It gets tossed to the side, off the bed. Before it even hits the floor, Stiles grabs for the edge of Derek’s, all too ready to feel skin on skin. 

The actual feeling is infinitely _more_ than all the porn and imagination in the world could have prepared him for. 

It’s not without its awkward moments; their skin sticks together more than once and sometimes, like when Derek curls his fingers around the back of Stiles’ neck and pulls him down even closer, their torsos _drag_ rather than slide.

But those moments are easy enough to forget, rendered unimportant by the feeling of Derek’s impossibly warm skin pressing against his. When Derek moves, Stiles can feel muscles shifting in response and he wishes that he could just sit back or remove himself from his own body for a few moments and just _watch_. But since that’s impossible (not to mention slightly creepy), he settles for leaning back on his knees to catch his breath and take in the sight below him. Derek’s body is slightly flushed, from the tips of his ears to the low-slung waistband of his sweatpants. Stiles gently runs his fingers through the thick, dark hair trailing down Derek’s chest, trying to pull air back into his lungs.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he says quietly, planting his palms just below Derek’s ribs, splaying his fingers as wide as they’ll go. “I mean, I _know_ it’s happening but this is…” He trails off, not sure where to finish his thoughts or what he even means. Thankfully, Derek just nods and props himself up on his elbows, so that they’re almost nose to nose.

“I know,” he says simply and it feels like stones rolling off Stiles’ shoulders. He exhales and wraps his hand around Derek’s jaw. When he brushes the pad of his thumb against the stubble, both the sound and the scrape are reassuring. They ground him back in the present, pull him away from the thoughts running through his mind.

It’s a small moment of absolute peace and Stiles savors it for a few moments before leaning back down for another kiss.

This one turns heated quickly and it should feel like whiplash, but Stiles throws himself back into it with everything he has. When Derek’s fingers settle tentatively over his belt buckle, Stiles nods and arches his hips into Derek’s hand.

“Yeah,” he pants, lips slick and definitely swollen, “go for it.”

Once Derek has popped open his belt and button, Stiles clambers to his feet just long enough to kick off his jeans. Once they’re puddled on the floor, he slides back up the bed and straddles Derek’s lap, trying not to look down at where his boxers are tented in front of him. No matter how hard he is (which is very), there’s no denying that it’s kind of a ludicrous sight. 

If he’d known that they were going to go this far, he would have worn a better pair of boxers than the Batman ones he bought himself last Christmas.

Just when he thinks that he’s managed to get off scot-free, Derek raises an eyebrow and brushes his fingers along the band of his boxers.

“Yeah, whatever,” Stiles mutters, trying to sound annoyed, which is nearly impossible when Derek’s fingers are so close to where he’s hard and aching. “Told you, I didn’t plan for this.”

“I won’t hold it against you,” Derek murmurs. His fingers wrap around the back of Stiles’ neck and tug him down for another kiss, just in time for his hand to slip inside Stiles’ boxers. When his fingers curl around Stiles’ cock, Stiles is caught between gasping, cursing and biting down on the nearest piece of skin, which happens to be Derek’s bottom lip.

Derek’s hand moves slowly and steadily at first, experimentally. His other hand is wrapped around the back of Stiles’ thigh, just below his ass. Stiles definitely isn’t ready for that yet, but he can’t help but imagine how Derek’s fingers would feel curled inside of him, crooking upwards. Just thinking about it makes him groan and roll his hips into Derek’s grip as he hunches over for another kiss. 

Once Derek props himself up on one elbow, shifting his hand down to where Stiles’ knee is resting on the mattress, it becomes easier to reach his mouth. More often than not, their lips just brush against each other, rather than being actively engaged. With every twist of Derek’s hand, Stiles gasps against his mouth. He lets out whimpers when Derek’s thumb runs over the head of his cock and when he starts speeding up, he can’t stop himself from swearing.

He’s _very_ glad that Derek doesn’t have neighbors. 

When Derek shifts, the rough slide of his still-clothed thighs against Stiles’ reminds him that he should return the favor. It takes him a few moments to focus past the sensations coursing through him so that he concentrate on running his hands down Derek’s chest to the band of his sweatpants.

“Not fair,” he mutters, tugging at them. “You-“

“After,” Derek interrupts, although Stiles doesn’t miss the way his cock twitches in his pants. “You first.” It feels wrong not to reciprocate right away, but on second thought, Stiles thinks it might be better if he waits. With Derek’s hand speeding up, it’s hard to think of anything else. His hands flit around, looking for purchase, before they finally land on the bed on either side of Derek’s head. Within moments, his arms start to shake, but he knows that he’s close, can feel it unspooling in his stomach. He just needs to hold himself up for a few more moments.

All it takes is for Derek to speed up a little more and squeeze a little tighter. Stiles comes with his forehead braced against Derek’s, fingers twisted in the sheets, words and half-moans falling from his mouth. He’s glad that they’re both shirtless because while some of his come slicks Derek’s hand, the rest dapples their stomachs. Once he’s managed to catch his breath slightly, Stiles glances down and absently runs his thumb through some of the now-damp hair leading into Derek’s sweatpants. Derek makes a sound almost like a _keen_ and raises his hips slightly.

“You don’t have to,” he says, pulling his hand from Stiles’ boxers and wiping it off with tissues from the nightstand. “If you don’t want to. I can wait.” 

“I don’t want to wait,” Stiles says, shaking his head. He’s not letting this moment slip through his fingers. He wants to see what Derek looks like when he comes undone. He wants to hear the sounds he makes when he’s almost ready to tip over the edge.

So he tugs Derek’s sweatpants down, licks a broad stripe up his palm, and wraps it around the base of Derek’s cock.

Needless to say, he’s never seen anything more beautiful than when Derek comes with his head thrown back against the pillow and Stiles’ name pouring from his mouth.

&.

Stiles cleans up afterwards, washes his hands and wipes his stomach off with a damp washcloth. There’s nothing he can do about the state of his boxers, but at least they’re mostly dry.

When he comes back, Derek is lying on his back, arms tucked underneath his head. The last rays of sun slanting through the window curve around the sharp vee of his hips and the muscles underneath his skin. Stiles feels like he’s looking at a painting, rather than real flesh and blood.

He collapses on his stomach beside Derek, mashing his face into a pillow that smells like sawdust and laundry detergent. After a moment, Derek’s hand drops onto his shoulder and starts twisting and turning, tracing out patterns that Stiles can’t picture in his head.

“Can I ask you something?” Stiles nods, pillowcase rasping quietly beneath his face as he shifts slightly. “When was the last time you stole something from your father?”

For a moment, Stiles stops breathing. It’s far from what he expected to talk about after their first time. It, floods him with feelings that he hasn’t had to bite back for months. They feel sharp in his mouth, like shards of glass he needs to spit out. His automatic impulse, as is it for anyone who pushes into his business, is to tell Derek to fuck off.

But he pushes himself past that response. He doesn’t want to spit glass at Derek. He wants to, one day, reach the point where the glass doesn’t show up in his mouth at all.

So he sighs and tells the truth. 

“Last week,” he says. “He fell asleep in his office. I came in to bring him dinner and there was an arson file on his desk. I read it upstairs and put it back before he woke up.” He stares out the window as he speaks; saying the words feels like a betrayal to himself, feels like he’s putting himself in screaming danger. He can’t bring himself to look at Derek’s face while he speaks, just in case it reflects back disappointment or one of the other emotions he hates enough as it is. 

“Did you copy any of it?” Derek’s hand doesn’t pause on his back; it just keeps going, tracing out the same spirals over and over again. 

“No.” He’d wanted to. The photographs were glossy, high-resolution depictions of twisted metal and charred cement, the last remnants of some long abandoned warehouse on the edge of town. He’d wanted to pour over every last detail of the file, commit to memory.

Instead, he’d read it once, glanced at each photo, and shoved everything back in the folder before taking the file back downstairs.

“Can I ask _you_ something?” he responds after the minutes tick by in silence and he finally feels able to look at Derek again. Derek nods and pauses the movements of his fingers.

“Of course.”

“Have you ever talked to anyone?” Stiles blurts out. These words are easier to find; he’s been turning them (or some version of them) over in his head for weeks, just waiting for the right time. “About Julian, I mean. Or your sister.” For a few moments, he thinks that he’s overstepped a line. Derek’s face goes blank and his fingers slacken against Stiles’ back. Stiles holds his breath while he waits, hoping that he didn’t just fuck up what is possibly the greatest thing he’s experienced in his life.

“Yeah,” Derek finally says, sighing deeply. “Some people back in New York. And there’s a therapist who works out of Beacon Hills Memorial. She’s primarily a grief counselor but she’s good. And she gives referrals, if you want to talk to someone else about school or something else.” He slides a little closer, until his toes are bumping against Stiles’ ankle.

“Do you want me to give her your name?” Stiles stares up at the ceiling and absently scrapes his leg against Derek’s foot while he thinks, muses over the last few weeks.

For a little while, he thought that things were getting better. Hell, he thought that things were actually pulling to a stop. He actually managed to get a few weeks of completely uninterrupted sleep, where his dreams were no stranger than they used to be. The prickles on the back of his neck while in otherwise empty rooms had softened, to the point where he was able to convince himself that they were no more than normal itches.

But then he’d gone to campus one day to fill in some form and across one of the squares, in between summer students, he’d seen someone. Someone with blonde curly hair, caught in the wind like gossamer, someone who had no business walking around.

For the rest of the day, his skin had crawled. He hadn’t bothered trying to sleep that night.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, reaching out and finding one of Derek’s hands. “I think that might be a good idea.”

&.

On October 23rd, Derek picks Stiles up in front of his dorm.

On any other day, Stiles would consider it an ungodly time to be up. He’s sitting on the front steps and even with a hoodie layered underneath a jacket, there are chills running up the back of his neck. There’s a low layer of mist clinging to the short grass in front of the building. There’s not another soul in sight; even the early morning runners have stayed inside, or already passed by. The sky is pale orange and the warmth of the sun is still locked in the clouds above.

Stiles wraps his arms around himself tighter and waits for the rumble of Derek’s Camaro to split the air.

Thankfully, he only has to wait a few more minutes. The car pulls up at the bottom of the broad steps and Stiles slowly gets to his feet, trying to shake some of the cold from his bones. He could have waited inside, waited to receive an _I’m here_ text from Derek, but he hadn’t wanted to wake Scott with his pacing.

The passenger door pops open just as he reaches the bottom step. Derek has already turned on the heated seats and Stiles groans, sinking back against the warm leather.

“I feel like an eighty year old,” he mutters, shoving his hands under his thighs so they can warm up. “Is it normal to hurt this much in the morning?”

“It’s not that cold out,” Derek replies, squeezing Stiles’ knee before shifting back into drive. Stiles just rolls his eyes. If there’s one thing he’s learned over the last few months, it’s that Derek’s idea of cold is _very_ different from his own.

The guy burns like a furnace. It isn’t even _fair_.

“Is the florist open at this hour?” Derek asks, slowing to a crawl to let someone cross the street.

“Sort of. I’ve already paid for the flowers, I just have to knock on the door and pick them up. They know the routine.” Him and his dad have been picking up two bouquets on October 23rd for the past eight years. Stiles is pretty sure the florists have the date booked for the next decade. Derek nods and pulls back out onto the main road leading away from campus. The roads are quiet as well and after a few moments, he places his hand between the seats, palm up. 

Though his fingers are still a little cold, Stiles entwines them with Derek’s. The human contact feels heavy and grounding, which is more than necessary on a day like today. 

It’s been eight years, but the anniversary of his mother’s death is still almost too much for him to stomach.

Their stop at the florist’s is quick; the owner opens the door at Stiles’ knock and passes him a small bouquet, full of lilies and violets. Their scent is all too familiar to him and by the time they reach the cemetery, it’s all he can smell and taste.

It’s the largest cemetery in town, wider than a city block, contained on a large hill that flattens at the top before continuing almost to the edge of the Beacon Hills Preserve. It’s bordered by imposing black fencing that’s tipped with blunted spikes, which don’t feel good when they dig into the meat of a thigh. Stiles knows this from experience.

They park along the sidewalk and for a few moments, Stiles simply stares at the half-open gate. His mother is buried in the middle of the place; if he closes his eyes, he can picture her gravestone exactly in his head, knows where the grooves and ridges are, where it’s wearing with age.

“I’m going to come back with Dad later,” he says, breaking the silence that descended after Derek turned off the car. “But it’s nice to just have a few moments with her.”

“I know,” Derek says. They slide out of the car and approach the gates in silence. The groundskeeper must have opened the place up, but there’s no sign of him and the whole area is quiet, almost eerily so.

“Take all the time you want,” Derek says once they’ve stepped inside. “We can meet back at the car.”

“Where are you going?” Stiles asks, curling his fingers tighter around the bouquet. Derek nods up the sloping path towards the back of the cemetery, where the older plots and family vaults are.

“Laura’s back there,” he says with a swallow. “It’s been awhile. Too long, I think.” Stiles nods and puts on the best smile he can muster. Derek returns it before pulling up the collar on his leather jacket and striding up the path, gravel and stones crunching underneath his boots. Stiles turns left instead, stepping through the damp, ankle high grass, watching his step to make sure he doesn’t tromp on anyone’s flowers or one of the flat markers that are almost hidden.

By the time he makes it to his mom’s stone, his socks are well on the way to soaking through. But for the moment, that’s not important. He sinks down onto the grass and props the bouquet against the stone, which comes up to his knees when he’s standing. 

“Hey Mom,” he says, brushing his fingers over the carved letters of her name. His father’s is there as well, waiting for a future that Stiles hopes is still a long ways off. “I’ve got a lot to tell you. Kind of a ridiculous amount, actually.”

He sits and he talks for what feels like hours, tracing over his mother’s name again and again. He tells her about college and community service. He tells her about the therapist he’s started seeing and he tells her about Derek. He tells her how they met in a field, standing over a boy who should have lived decades longer, whose path crossed with his for one horrible moment.

He talks until his throat is sore and the sun is starting to dry some of the dew. Only then does he stand back up and rest his hand on the still cold top of the stone.

“I’ll be back with Dad later,” he says, running his fingers over the rough surface. “Love you, Mom.” 

He turns and heads further into the cemetery, back towards the tree line. It takes him a few moments but eventually, he finds the stone. It’s even smaller than his mother’s, so low to the ground that he has to crouch to read it properly. The granite is still stark-white and seems to almost sparkle. The ground around it has been weeded recently and there is a small bundle of slightly faded flowers sitting at its base.

It’s the first time he’s visited Julian’s grave. He’s thought about more than once; hell, he even thought about sending something to the boy’s mother, just telling her sorry for what happened. But it’d always felt intrusive. Just standing at his grave feels intrusive so Stiles keeps it as brief as possible, saying the words out loud out of habit.

“I’m sorry this happened to you,” he says. “I wish we could have met some other way.” He lingers a few moments; for what, he doesn’t know. Only when it feels right does he get up and leave, carefully picking his way back through the plots, trying not to trip.

Derek is already back at the Camaro, leaning against the passenger side, arms crossed over his chest. He looks paler than usual and there’s dirt smudged on the back of his hands and on the thighs of his jeans.

“Had to do some weeding,” he says with a weary laugh. Stiles comes to a stop in front of him. Part of him wants to just wrap his arms around Derek and stay there until he can’t think of anything else. But even if the environment was a more appropriate venue, Derek and public affection don’t go hand in hand.

Stiles is fine with it. He gets all the affection he needs after hours.

“Are you alright?” he asks. After a moment, Derek nods, his gaze drifting back over Stiles’ shoulder to the cemetery.

“Yeah. I’m fine. It’s just been awhile. What about you?” 

Stiles manages to bite back his default response of _yeah, yeah totally fine._ Instead, he too glances back at the cemetery, which looks slightly less ominous now that the sun has really started to come out. There’s no denying that he isn’t looking forward to the rest of the day; it’s always a difficult one, which is why he’s already decided to skip his classes. 

But he already knows that it’s going to be manageable. For all that has happened over the past few months, the nightmares and the fuck-ups and the sense that something about him was just _wrong_ , he’s managing. 

Derek is helping him manage.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, stepping close enough to take Derek’s hand. “I think I’ll be okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


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